


Winter's Iron Custom

by Rainfallen



Series: Wayfaring [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ADWD spoilers, F/M, Gen, Travel, Warging, the wall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainfallen/pseuds/Rainfallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Spoilers for ADWD. </b>  Gendry-centric, heavily implied Arya x Gendry. </p><p> </p><p>When Gendry hears that Arya has been wed to Bolton's Bastard, he sets off North.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's Iron Custom

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 4th [Game of Thrones Exchange](http://got-exchange.livejournal.com) for [Brytanie](http://brytanie.livejournal.com).

  
_This deadly burst of snow is burning my hands,_  
 _I'm frozen to the bones, I am  
 _A million miles from home, I'm walking away  
 _I can't remember your eyes, your face___  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The Wall is taller than he expected.  
  
Oh, to be sure, he's heard the tales. Even in the tight stifling spaces of King's Landing, men would speak of the great Wall of ice that stood implacable to the North, a towering monument to an older time, now little more than a glorified palisade against the Wildlings and dumping ground for a continent's worth of criminals. But stories stretch when they travel a thousand leagues, and now, having walked the longest road in Westeros, Gendry can say without much of a lie that the world is smaller than he'd ever imagined as a boy. That Wall, though.  _That_  tale didn't stretch on its way South.  
  
When Yoren herded him through the gates of King's Landing, back in the days before Winter came, Gendry had given more than a little thought to where they were going. The Oath is for life, after all. But in the slow stretch of months and years that have passed since, he's thought little enough about the Wall... until the news came South, and he set his steps North without so much as a second thought. And that in itself is an oddity he doesn't care to linger on, though long nights huddled in cocoons of snow-wrapped furs have left plenty of time for contemplating just when and why he'd turned from slow and steady and never a deed unthought to heedless reactionary riding North on a borrowed horse and the rumor of a girl.  
  
He's a man grown, he doesn’t have to explain himself to himself.  
  
Unfortunately, even men grown have to explain themselves to kings and lords. This is why he always thought things through before, he tells himself. These sorts of things never  _happened_ before. Caution had served him well for fifteen years. Before the Kingsroad, before the village, before Harrenhal, before that night. It was Tobho Mott who'd sent him from the city and Yoren of the Watch who'd escorted him from it, but somehow in the mire of his memory intent and directions and blame and credit always fall to  _her_  somehow. He would never have done something like this before  _her._ He would never have done something like this for anyone but her.  
  
And so, this is how he finds himself standing still and staring up, up, up at something far too far away to tower over him the way it does, while the men accompanying him ride on, unmoved. Something about it prickles at the skin of his neck.  _Unnatural. Untamed. Unpredictable._ Gendry shivers, suddenly very glad this is not his home, and resolves to keep the nature of his departure from King's Landing to himself. Of course, as his luck would have it, the Lord Commander has the truth out of him less than an hour after the patrol delivers Gendry to the Lord's rooms, because Gendry is a shit liar and the Stark look is more persuasive than he'd ever thought.  
  
Lord Snow moves slowly, like a man much older than himself, though at first glance he looks like nothing so much as a boy. Wounds, Gendry decides, battle wounds not fully healed or healed wrong, catching in his chest or twinging in his arm and keeping his movements measured and careful. Despite his lineless face, this man is as much a boy as Gendry is (which is to say not at all): they're of an age, and both neck deep in ghosts and scars.  
  
"You bring news from King Stannis?" Lord Snow asks, and gestures again for Gendry to sit. Gendry doesn't look at the dire wolf that hulks in his peripheral vision like the North come to life. Instead he sits, obedience a force of habit ground like dirt into his very skin. And then Lord Snow looks at him with  _her_  eyes, and suddenly the words spill out of him before he's even given himself leave to think.  
  
"I come from the king," he admits, "But it's your sister I've news about."  
  
Maybe it's his look, so much like hers. Maybe it's the complete shift in his stance when mention of his sister passes Gendry's lips. Maybe it's the underlying kinship of bastard, maybe it's his imagination, but something in Jon Snow commands that Gendry meet his eyes and so he does, unflinching.  
  
"Tell me," Jon asks, a note of desperation Gendry never expected in those two words, and so Gendry tells him.  
  
He's more receptive to his story than Stannis. And there's an understatement the likes of which Gendry may never make again.  
  
He starts at the beginning, because Gendry is nothing if not logical, and makes his way more or less to the middle, after word of her marriage to Bolton's Bastard reached them, after he'd lost his head and his sense and left the closest thing he'd had to a home in years, intent on rescuing the closest thing he'd had to a friend in his life. He should have known she didn't need rescuing, he admits, to Jon's rueful smile, but even if he had known, it still wasn't in the way he'd thought. "This is what happened next," he adds. "You're her family. This is what you need to know."  
  
\---  
  
He had been a two-weeks ride from Winterfell before he'd realized he had no idea what he'd do when he got there. They'd never let the likes of him ride through the gate. And even if they did, what would he do? Walk up to Bolton's Bastard and stick a blade in his gut? The man would have guards, and he'd never get close enough before they'd take him down. It wasn't the dying that he objected to, precisely, though he'd prefer to avoid that if he could. It was the dying with the job still unfinished, with that bastard still breathing good air. Gendry put no stock in death without a point to it. He'd have to think, to wait, to plan. None of this rushing off willy-nilly business like he'd done when he left. Maybe he could offer his trade and get in with their lot; surely the seat of the North could use a smith. He could bide his time, wait for his chance. Think things through, the way he liked to do.  
  
As it turned out, he never needed it. Stannis Baratheon held Winterfell, and Bolton's Bastard was dead. It should have been a relief, he shouldn't feel the flash of anger in his gut, shouldn't have to stamp down the fear that something wasn't quite right, but Gendry couldn't shake it. It had been months that  _he_  had had her, that he'd –  
  
No. Free of the Bastard or no, Gendry had needed to see her with his own two eyes. He needed to know she was alive and well, and then he'd be on his way. It had always been a fool's errand, he'd long since admitted that, but now he felt more foolish still, for it had been for nothing. If he could lay eyes on her, maybe it would be for  _something_ then, if only his own peace of mind. Maybe he could beg her pardon and set things right before he left. Maybe she'd still have enough of her old self in her to punch him in the arm, tell him not to be stupid. That would be better than nothing, so much better.  
  
But she hadn't left her rooms, Even in the evenings, when the king's men gathered in the Great Hall and Gendry could slip amongst them unnoticed, the only face of a girl he saw at the high table was the scarred face of the Princess.  
  
His tenth night at Winterfell, they brought her out at last. Her name was called just after the King's and Gendry's breath caught in his chest, wine rolled in his belly. He slid along the wall, edging around elbows and hounds, as close to the high table as he dared. There was a cascade of brown hair, and then her face turned and –  
  
 _No._  Of every terrible thing he had been expecting, this was not it.  
  
Several minutes later, he had still been staring, confusion swiftly turning to sickening horror, and he was jostled into the open by a serving girl who passed too close to his elbow. A sudden flurry at the high table caught his attention; the princess had scrambled from her seat and pointed right at him, her face alight with delighted surprise. He had glanced about himself for a moment, uncertain, and then back up in time to see her mouth form a word, over and over, in obvious excitement. "Edric," he had thought she called. "Edric!"  
  
A few seats over, at the center of the high table, the sharp blue eyes of the king landed upon him and Gendry cursed his luck, not for the first time nor the last.  
  
The guards had hauled him to the lord's solar and left him there to await the king's pleasure. The little princess burst in moments later and made to run to him, but as he stepped into the light of the candles, her steps slowed. Past her, the king's tall frame had filled the doorway, and Gendry ducked his head in deference.  
  
The girl had hesitated a moment and when Gendry lifted his eyes, it was hers he met. They were blue like his own, and soft. Kind. She smiled, and it was hard to resist the tug he felt at the corner of his lips in response. "Oh... oh. I beg your pardon, ser," she had said then, quietly. "I thought you were someone I knew. You looked... shorter sitting down. And younger." She wrung her hands delicately and he shook his head.  
  
"Please don't trouble yourself, m'lady," he'd said. "I get told that a lot."  
  
There had been a gruff clearing of a throat from the doorway. "Go along back to your rooms, daughter," the king ordered, not unkindly, and with one last look back, the princess scurried away.  
  
"You're a long way from King's Landing, boy," Stannis Baratheon said to him after a long moment, and of course he remembered Gendry, because Gendry's luck was enough to turn any good man bad. As an anonymous messenger from Lord Beric Dondarrion, or even Thoros of Myr, his word might have carried some little weight. As a baseborn apprentice from the gutters of King's Landing, they carried little and less.  
  
"Yes m'lo– your Grace." He hazarded a glance up. The king's face was inscrutable, his jaw a sharp line of tension in a face that was leaner than Gendry remembered.  
  
"Why are you here, boy? Who brought you?" When Gendry hesitated, the king's scowl deepened. "The truth, damn you."  
  
"I brought myself, your Grace. I'd left King's Landing and joined up with Lord Beric's men in the Riverlands." If he was going to hang himself, might as well make it worthwhile. "We had Lord Stark's daughter with us, a couple years back, and were going to take her to her Lady mother at the Twins. Only she was stolen away before we could. When word came that she was back home and wed to the Bastard I – we – "  
  
"Tywin Lannister sent Arya Stark north from King's Landing," the king interrupted. "Months ago. Any girl you might have had was an imposter."  
  
Gendry shook his head. "No, your Grace. That girl you have in there. That isn't her. She doesn't even look like her."  
  
A vein pulsed in Stannis Baratheon's forehead at the challenge. "She has answered every question we put her to satisfactorily. She knows things that only Eddard Stark's daughter would, and certainly more than whatever street wench or field hand Dondarrion's bunch may have dredged up. I'll hear no more of this fool nonsense, Boy."  
  
Gendry had dropped his gaze to the ground where it belonged. "I don't know who that girl is, your Grace," he'd said doggedly. "But the real one, we traveled together and she told me such things as no imposter would know. I just wanted to –"  
  
"Enough," the king ground out, and Gendry had shut his mouth.  
  
He'd asked leave to go to the Wall before being ushered from the king's rooms, and it had been granted. Stannis Baratheon had a dozen men set to depart for the Wall two days hence, carrying messages and supplies. Gendry was to ride with them. His first two days in Winterfell had informed him reliably that the Lord Commander Snow of whom so many spoke was Eddard Stark's bastard son, whom she had mentioned more than once. They had been close. If he couldn't convince the king, perhaps he could convince her brother.  
  
On the morning they were set to depart, a voice rang out across the yard. "Boy," the king called to him, and as he approached, brushed aside Gendry's requisite deferences. Stannis hefted up a long, narrow bundle and handed it off to Gendry with a strange, almost defensive set to his brow and mouth. "You'll need a proper weapon at the Wall. When I finish the business here and return North to join the battle once more, I expect I may call upon you to use it."  
  
"My thanks, your Grace," Gendry had said, knowing not what else to say. He got a curt nod in response, and both turned to walk away. Gendry had just fastened the war hammer to the saddle of his horse when –  
  
"Boy," the king called out again. Gendry absolutely hadn't cursed under his breath; he raised his eyes and nodded in acknowledgement, waiting for Stannis to continue.  
  
"Mind the vows you make, boy. Others before you have found their oaths... difficult in the keeping." The king gave him a long look, and it made Gendry almost as angry as he was nervous. Who knew what the mad man was on about. Gendry was no oath breaker; he knew better than to go around making oaths he couldn't keep. When the king finally turned away, Gendry's shoulders dropped in relief. Bad enough he was still nosing about in the business of lords and ladies. His life never took a pleasant turn when kings and queens took such an active interest in it.  
  
\---  
  
He doesn’t tell all this to Lord Snow, of course. Only the important parts, and only enough to make him understand.  
  
"She was all wrong. Even the look. If someone didn't pay her no mind before, then maybe they might be fooled, but her face was all wrong, and her eyes especially." He shakes his head. "It's been two years, but I'd know her anywhere and it wasn't her."  
  
"Her eyes?" Lord Snow presses, and when Gendry answers flatly, "Brown," Jon sucks in a breath.  
  
"Arya's – " Gendry says, and her name scrapes like a knife across his throat, even now, so he swallows hard; tries again. "Lady Arya's – hers were grey. Like yours. You have her look."  
  
"Our father's look," Jon Snow says, almost absently, clearly thinking. "But why come to me? If it isn't Arya at Winterfell – it's been two years. Did you come all this way just to tell me my sister is surely dead? Or have your people had word of her?"  
  
Gendry shakes his head. "We thought – word got to some of our people that the Hound was near the – the Twins. Before the Wedding. Some said they saw her with him, so we thought maybe – but no one ever said, after. They said plenty about the Lady and – and the King, but nothing about her. We never thought she was really there, after that. Surely they'd've said, if they had her. Or. No. They'd've said."  
  
"Have your people had word of the Hound?"  
  
Gendry shakes his head again. "No, m'lord."  
  
Jon is silent for a long time. And then: "But you think she's still alive."  
  
"I never saw anyone so determined to stay alive in my life. And she was so smart. Able to tell the directions, able to find food in places we never thought of. Quick, and better with a sword than any little girl had a right to be."  
  
"A sword?"  
  
"Aye, she had this little blade, short and skinny as she was. But it did the job."  
  
Jon Snow huffs a little laugh and passes hand over his face. "Well," he says after a moment, and his voice is thick. "Ser Gendry, I think you're right. I think she must be alive, somewhere, waiting until it's safe to come home. I – I think I would feel it, if she weren't." His eyes flicker to the great white beast sitting guard near the door.  
  
"You and I are more alike than not, I think," he continues. "I went to rescue her too, you know. Though I didn't make it as far as you. If I had my way, I'd scour every inch of this land for her until I brought her safely home, but, as I have been... reminded... my place is here." He swallows a long drought of wine and looks Gendry in the eye. "You'd be wise not to follow that course, either. Winter is here, and the road South will only get harder. Winter isn't the time for reclaiming, but for surviving, and if you've a notion of what waits on the other side of this Wall, you know what it is we must survive."  
  
Gendry nods, waiting for what he knows must come next, weighing his options.  
  
"You look like you have a strong arm. You mentioned you were on your way to the Wall with Yoren and my sister once. We could use men like you here, if you still wanted it."  
  
"I never  _wanted_ it, m'lord. It was a place, same as any other."  
  
"As I said, this winter won't get any easier. I won't ask you to bind yourself to the Watch. But if you would stay and exchange your services for room and board, you would be welcome."  
  
It makes more sense than anything he's done to this point, so he stays. The king makes his way back to the Wall within the span of a few months, and sets to garrisoning the keep, siphoning away the Free Folk to different holdfasts, shoring up the barriers at the gates, raising new defenses at the sea shore. Men fight, and men die, and more than once Gendry sees things which no living eye should ever have to behold, feels the touch of true Winter, true darkness, an ancient malice beyond his understanding. But the times when he is called to battle are few enough, and on most of his days his hand grips a hammer tight to build, not destroy, and his ears ring with the harsh song of creation, not death.  
  
One morning, when it has been five turns of the moon since the last blizzard and both sides of the Wall are quiet, he finds the Lord Commander in his solar. If their goodbye is brief, it is no less heartfelt for the brevity. Nor is it forever, they both think, though neither will say it. Gendry knows that Jon Snow knows where he is going. And why.  
  
And so Gendry turns his face South and sets off with a garron and a spare and such supplies as the Watch can allow for their wandering smith.  
  
When he passes from the North, he thinks of taking the eastern road to the Vale, of following the Roseroad to Highgarden, of picking his way south to Dorne. But something tugs at his gut and he continues, seemingly aimlessly, through the Riverlands, lands he might once have recognized, treated harshly by Winter but now touched ever so softly by the fingers of Spring. He stops at an inn when there's one to be had, or sleeps bundled beneath the trees, asks questions where he can and is strangely content.  
  
And one morning, when sleep has eluded him despite the straw mattress and warm food, he sets out early. When he steps into the yard, the stars still shine soft in the dark sky, and not even a hint of pink touches the horizon. The soft glow of the moon catches on a shape before him, two eyes burning bright like flame, and he takes an involuntary step back. "Ghost?" he asks, but he knows that it's wrong before the word leaves his mouth. Having been in close quarters with a full-grown dire wolf countless times, Gendry could never mistake this for anything else, but it is not Snow's albino wolf. There is a wildness to this great grey beast that even the North could not hold, and a purpose in her eyes that makes Gendry feel more than a little dizzy from the raw fear of it. He stands stock-still, hands frozen at his sides.  
  
She doesn't lunge, nor make a sound as she lumbers toward him, eyes never dropping, steps not caged. When she stops, a scant two paces from him, her stare is almost expectant. "What do you want from me?" he asks of her, his voice creaking in his throat, heart more afraid of hope than the ancient face of death.  
  
She makes a soft noise in her throat and scents the air, lifting her head almost as high as his own. Satisfied, she closes the gap between them, and for a moment they simply stare.  
  
Possessed by gods only know what manner of instinct, Gendry rips the glove off a hand that is no longer shaking, and reaches out. The wolf shoves her snout into his hand, warm breath and coarse fur sending a shiver through him, down to his very bones.  
  
A thousand leagues away, across land and sea and an aching chasm of loss, a girl opens her eyes.  
  
  
  
  
  
\---  
  
"The next thing then she waking looks upon,  
Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull,  
...  
She shall pursue it with the soul of love"  
                 _\-- A Midsummer Night's Dream_  II, i  
  
\---

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://sergendry.tumblr.com) if you're so inclined.


End file.
